Shell Hunt

It was in the summer of my fifteenth year, upon the broken coastline of Anglesey, sifting through a wade pool just a hand's breadth from the thunderous waves, that I met the dulcet Mirabelle. Her laughter carried on the strong wind, melodious and soft, a Siren's song to such a young lad as I.

Even then, before mine eyes ever set upon her fiery locks or that dazzling smile, I had already fallen hopelessly in love with the lass. It was upon the next moment that I realized this, and the tragic news this meant for me.

For I knew. . . I knew in the moment I caught sight of her, just rounding the bluff, chasing a small bird as it hopped from rock to rock, that my heart would forever belong to this strange creature of light and mischief. Her eyes shone bright with gaiety and delight as she scurried over the uneven stone. . . until she came upon me, staring in awe at the beauty of this wonder before me.

She gave me a small, uncertain smile -- unnerved, no doubt, by my blatant gawking -- and looked away, over her shoulder, toward the progressing sunset. The way the light of the waning sun set her copper hair ablaze, her slight profile provoking yearnings I'd only just discovered. . . by the gods, I wanted to paint her! I wanted to. . . touch her. . .

But most of all, I wanted her to touch me. I wanted to look down into those vibrant, hazel eyes and hold her close, knowing that she wanted me to keep her safe. This was the first time I had ever felt this. . . And I wanted more.

As she looked back toward me and the darkening waves as they crashed against the Isle, she studied me for a moment, very visibly made up her mind about something, and brazenly held out her hand for me to shake. "My name is Mirabelle, but my ma and pa just call me Miri. What's your name, stranger?"

I stumbled over myself, the words only half-formed and choking me as they slipped out of my clumsy mouth. "Glen -- ah, Glen Fergus." I cast about frantically, trying to find the words that should have been where there was now a void in my mind. Looking down, I noticed the seashells in my hand and proffered them to her. "I'm looking for the most beautiful ones for my collection. Would you like to join me?"

By nightfall, we were inseparable. And by summer's end, we were lovers. I'll never know what happened to the sweet, quiet thing that stole my heart that year. . .

I never saw her again, that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue. The memory of her has haunted me ever since -- until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.